


Striptease

by ivorygates



Series: Striptease [1]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Gen, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 07:40:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorygates/pseuds/ivorygates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody died.  Nobody even got a <i>hangnail.</i>  It was just a Weird Alien Hazing.</p>
<p>And it happened to him.</p>
<p>He guesses that means he's Arrived, SG-1 Style. </p>
            </blockquote>





	Striptease

**Author's Note:**

> This is all Kazbaby's fault! But Synecdochic helped! (In fact, several of the lines are hers! I am totally not saying which.) And, as always, Cam's middle name is courtesy of Minervacat...

"Is it just me," Cam asked, "or are the two of you getting way too much fun out of this?"

Two pair of almost-angelic blue eyes stared back at him with something similar to innocence.

"The three of us," Sam said, after a pause. "The _three_ of us are getting way too much fun out of this."

"Indeed," Teal'c rumbled. One mighty Jaffa eyebrow twitched.

"Oooh, better get going," Jackson said. "Looks like the natives are getting restless." The innocent act, Cam thought, was really unconvincing

Cam trudged - he'd like to put a better face on it; maybe later, in the report - toward the front of the Alien Bar. Cantina. Whatever. Goddammit, these things never happened to Luke Skywalker. Not even on Pay-Per-View.

When he got there, he glanced back at his team. They looked entirely too cheerful for three people sitting at a table in a bar with guns being held to their heads by crazy people.

On the other hand, they were all certain he was going to get them out of this. And he was. He just had to do one little thing first.

The chief gun-guy made an "up-up-up" motion with his gun. Sam and Jackson - helpfully - echoed it with their empty hands. Cam shook his head. There were words that were going to be had when they all got home alive.

He climbed up onto the bar. Several of the patrons still sitting on the stools - and there'd been spirited bribery involved to secure those seats; he'd watched - were happy to assist him, involving hands _going where hands were not supposed to go._ He swatted them away and staggered to his feet.

The drums began.

Cam stared toward the drummer in disbelief, then back at his team. _Bom-ba-ba-dom-ba-ba-dom-ba-ba-dom-ba- dom-ba-dom-ba-dom-ba-dom-ba-dom-ba-dom-ba-dom-ba-_

Sam had both hands clapped over her mouth. Turning slowly pink. Jackson had his blandest expression on, looking like he'd just swallowed a live cat. Teal'c looked like he was laughing on the inside.

And Cam was standing on a bar a hundred thousand light-years from home, listening to _aliens_ bang out a down-and-dirty bump-and-grind rhythm on giant bongos, and knowing that the only way the four of them were going to walk through the Gate alive was if he took it off. Took it _all_ off.

Because the price of getting out of this mess alive was a strip-tease, and the locals didn't actually care which of the four of them it was, and Jackson had ever-so-helpfully pointed out that he and Sam had co-command, and Sam had _looked_ at him and he'd said, "I'll do it."

He'll figure out some way to pay Jackson back for this. Somehow.

He starts with his cap. Easy. Skims it toward their table. But it starts a small riot as the patrons snatch it out of the air and fight over it, and seeing that, he gets out of his tac-vest in a hurry and snaps it toward Teal'c. Teal'c plucks it out of the air and glares at anybody who looks like they might want to fight him for it. That's a relief. It's got Cam's GDO in it. Also his radio and a couple of blocks of C4. He's starting to get the feeling everything else is going to be party favors, though, and that kind of sucks. Uniform shirt's next though.

"It's supposed to be a strip-tease!" Jackson shouts over the sound of the drumming and the whooping of the crowd. And Cam's damned if he's going to _dance like a hootchie-mama_ , but on the other hand, he's having to move around pretty smartly up here to keep from getting his ankles grabbed and getting dragged down off the bar. The deal was a strip-tease, not a lap-dance. He gets his uniform shirt unbuttoned and flirts around with it a little. Not gonna say where he learned these moves. Hell, if he's lucky this place'll kick over into full-scale war before he has to take much else off.

Eventually the shirt has to go, though. He's been to enough concerts to know how it's done: a few fake-outs then he tosses it off into a corner with a wink and a smile. Everybody fights over it, but there are still plenty of eyes on him and more than enough guns on his team.

He dawdles around with his boots for a while just to tease. Strutting back and forth the length of the bar, pulling the Velcro strips loose, pulling the ties loose, and hey, everybody here might be aliens - except for two of the traitorous bastards whose lives he's trying to save right now - but they all know that boots have to come off so pants can come off, so they're giving him a little slack. Probably hoping he'll trip on his laces and land in somebody's lap. Not a chance. Once the boots are loose enough to kick off - oh, but he doesn't plan to do that, he's going to _throw_ them when the time comes, and hope he can brain Jackson, because he deserves some comfort out of all this - he goes back and pulls off his t-shirt.

And hey. That actually gets Sam to sit up and take notice, so Cam decides that this might not suck as much as, oh, getting tortured by the _Goa'uld_. He plays the audience for a couple of minutes - they're getting either restless or appreciative, he's not sure which - then tosses the t-shirt off in the other direction from where he tossed his shirt. And the drummers haven't missed a beat yet. That's comforting in a way.

The next fake-out comes when he makes his belt a separate line-item. Plays around with it a bit, too, wrapping it around his neck and his back, and pretending he's completely forgotten his audience is there. Hard to do when they're yelling almost loud enough to drown out the drums, and the guys at the bar are yelling and waving fistfuls of the local currency and Cam _just does not want to know_ what they're offering. He lets the beat get down into his hips with a "do me" shimmy, though. Doesn't hurt to let them know what they're going to miss.

He hopes to Jesus they're going to miss it.

He rolls the belt up into a tight little ball and flips it high over his shoulder. And his audience roars, and over all of it he hears a high banshee yelp - Holy God, is that _Sam?_

He swings around, heel and toe, and bucks his hips forward and smiles, and she's looking up at him with an "I'm So Innocent You Just Know I'm Guilty" expression on her face.

He's running out of clothes. And he thinks - he hopes - if he plays fair they'll let him keep his tags, so the next thing to go is his watch. There's a groan of disappointment when he reaches for the strap; he walks backward out of reach of the clutching hands. After so long up on top of this damned slab of wood he knows it up-down-and-backward. The watch is small and comparatively heavy, so it's easy to aim, and it goes right where he chucks it; into the hand of the chief gun-guy. Now, nobody could say that was a bribe, could they?

He knows they're all praying for him to fall when it's time for the boots. But that old game of tossing pilots in a blanket to teach them to be oriented under any circumstances? Isn't that old. He's got no problem keeping his balance. And he may prefer basketball to baseball, but it doesn't mean he's never played his share of sandlot. That Size Eleven goes right where he wants it to, too.

Jackson snags it right out of thin air like plucking a peach out of a tree and smiles. Sets the boot down right in the middle of the table and folds his hands calm as Church on Sunday. Cam doesn't think he's going to get his boot back, regardless of where it's landed.

Other boot. He doesn't bother trying to brain Jackson again. He lofts it to the back of the room - it's heavy and he can get good distance, and with that much warning, it won't hurt anybody when it comes down. He's got plenty of slide in his sock-feet, so he works that for a couple of minutes. It's funny the things you think about at times like these. It's been a hella long time since he's been out dancing. He wonders if Sam would like to go? Gotta be some place in the Springs.

Socks off next. And, well, if they want 'em, they got 'em. Seem to be happy to have 'em. No accounting for taste. They're fighting over them like souvenirs at a rock concert, but no matter how rowdy the crowd gets, the guns don't waver off his team.

And it's showtime. So to speak.

He's never been so grateful for the military-standard button fly. It gives him plenty to play around with, and time to convince himself that he _isn't here at all._ It would sure be nice if the other three weren't staring as if he had the secrets of the universe tattooed on the inside of his navel. He guesses that's the least of his worries right about now. Gun-guy said they could go of one of them stripped to the buff, but hey. They've been lied to before.

Now his fly is open, and his pants are sliding down; BDUs aren't exactly snug to begin with. And there's only one thing to do in a situation like that.

Work it.

He shimmies his hips so the pants slide down. Grabs them and drags them back up - but not too far. Lets them slide again. Moving all the time, up and down the bar, because if he stays still, he'll get grabbed. And then they're down around his knees, so he steps out - just one leg - and yanks them back up again.

Sam covers her face with her hands. Jackson pats her on the back and whispers something in her ear, and Cam has _never been more grateful in his life_ not to be able to hear it.

He turns his back and sticks his ass out at the crowd and wiggles it, and for a moment the noise in the room is so loud he can't even hear the drums.

And then he whips the pants right off, but he isn't done with them yet. Oh, no. These folks had asked for a _floor show_ and that's what they were going to get, courtesy of Lt. Colonel Cameron Everett Mitchell, USAF.

He just hopes his momma never finds out.

So he dances with the pants. Holds them up in front of him, holds them up in back of him, flings them over his right shoulder, then over his left shoulder - he goes through the entire goddamned Manual of Arms with the pants. But all good things must come to an end, so before the patience of the crowd does, he holds his pants - his beloved pants - by the legs and twirls them around his head like a rodeo cowboy with a lasso. And flings them.

The crowd goes wild. The pants do not survive the experience. Cam swallows hard. That fabric was tough. It was rip-stop. Bouncers with truncheons wade into the melee, but it's surprisingly easy to quell. Nobody really wants to miss what's coming next.

Now it's down to him, a bar full of drunk sex-crazed aliens, and a pair of khaki boxer shorts for the lives of SG-1. And he swears by everything he holds dear that he is _not_ writing this Mission Report. If asked, he'll lie.

There's a certain amount he can do with the elastic waistband, and he does it, but it's suddenly hard to concentrate, and not just because he's _about to be naked._ It's because after the naked might come - is probably going to come - how the hell does he know whether it's going to come or not - the really unpleasant stuff, and not one single one of them has a single weapon. Okay, grenades. So they could blow the locals all to hell, but that isn't terribly useful, now, is it?

He kicks out automatically at the hand that grabs him around the ankle. The natives really _are_ getting restless. And there's no point in looking at Sam. No, in fact there are about a million good reasons not to look at Sam right now. He can do this. She's seen him without his pants before.

Yeah, but he'd still had his _underwear._

Sure. And for the next couple of minutes, he'll still have his underwear. He just won't be _wearing_ it.

He turns his back to the audience. Shimmy and strut, and hell, for just one moment he doesn't care - he bets he's the best-looking thing to walk along up here in a month of Sundays. He stops, pivots, freezes with his back to them - Ashton's voice suddenly crystal-clear in his head making a snarky remark about vogueing - and shucks his shorts in one smooth motion. Spins around, holding them in front of him. Flirts up at his audience from under his lashes: the "Shy Country Boy" act. Turns around and holds them in back. And right now he couldn't have said - hand on a Bible and Come to Jesus - whether he's embarrassed or scared witless or determined to put on the best damned show _ever_ or just praying this can be over one way or the other. What he _is_ doing is playing "toro-toro" with his skivvies until he can't draw things out any longer.

So he tosses them into the crowd.

And there's nothing stupider-looking - Cam has always said, and has the experience to back it up - than a guy trying to cover up something everybody'd already seen - so he just stands there on the bar, hands on hips.

And there's a momentary _feeding frenzy_ over the boxers, and then...

Nothing. Silence. The drummers stop, and the sudden _silence_ is enough to make him actually stagger just a little. Ripples of quiet spread out in all directions. Gun-guy holsters his weapon. The other gun-guys step away from his team. Sam and Jackson look at each other and get to their feet, and when they do, Teal'c does too, and nobody pays any attention to any of them. It's like they've all suddenly become _invisible._

"I believe we may depart now, Colonel Mitchell," Teal'c says, walking over to the bar.

And all of a sudden Cam realizes that he's standing on the bar like a goddamned ice sculpture. A goddamned _naked_ ice sculpture. And the guys who'd been so handsy not five minutes ago are acting like he isn't even there.

And he wishes he was as good at it as they are, because Sam _is_ right there, and she doesn't look like she plans to be anywhere else any time soon. He gets down off the bar as fast as he can - consistently with _not hurting himself,_ because he really doesn't think he's getting any of his clothes back.

Teal'c hands him his vest.

"Uh... thanks." At least he can hold it in front of himself. Not that that'll do a lot of good _in the Gateroom._ "Um... somebody want to tell me what just happened?"

Jackson does. Jackson's delighted to. All the way back to the Gate, in fact. A two-mile lecture on alien cultures and Jackson's shiny new theories about this one, which seem to boil down to the idea that it's rude to acknowledge the presence of those who have just entertained you.

"You were very entertaining, Cam," Sam says. Her voice wavers just a little. He's made her walk in front. That's _after_ she suggested that in light of their recent experience he ought to have someone watching his six. Cam doesn’t have anything to say to that that's remotely civilized, so he keeps his mouth shut. Also he's barefoot and he's real busy watching the ground for sharp rocks. That's his story and he's sticking to it.

When he isn't watching the ground, he's doing his best to _kill Jackson with the power of his eyes._ It isn't working. He knows damned well exactly whose fault it is that he ended up naked in an alien bar. Jackson's the cultural specialist. Jackson should have been the one to make nice with the natives. If _Jackson_ had ended up naked in public (again), Cam would have sacrificed one or two non-vital articles of clothing to make sure Jackson did not end up _walking back into the Gate Room the next thing to butt-naked._

If the thought of doing anything like that has crossed Jackson's mind, he's doing a good job of concealing it.

On the other hand....

Nobody died. Nobody even got a _hangnail._ It was just a Weird Alien Hazing.

And it happened to him.

He guesses that means he's Arrived, SG-1 Style. And despite everything - including the Mission Report he knows he isn't going to be able to duck - Cam feels a loopy grin - half relief, half pride - spread itself over his face.

For just a moment.

Until he does the math, and thinks of eight years of missions, and wonders _just how many times_ SG-1 came home from missions drugged, naked, or ... worse. Sam, Teal'c, and Jackson have all been there, done that, and _gotten the damned t-shirt._ And that means...

...they obviously intend for him to make up lost time. He doesn't have to wonder who's going to be going through the Gate on every mission with the bright shiny _"Kick Me"_ target painted on his back. It's going to be him. Married to a psychotic alien princess? That's probably next. Unless it's kidnapped as trade goods by a barbarian warlord. Or, oh, hey. There's always _alien bounty hunter's hostage._ He bets that one's gonna be _fun_...

He groans.

"Problem, Mitchell?" Jackson asks, and the man sounds entirely too happy with life.

"Just wondering if you might consider cutting a guy a little slack here."

Jackson looks as if he might actually be thinking about it - as far as Cam can tell from looking at the back of his head. Looking at the back of Jackson's head means Cam isn't looking at the ground, though, and he steps on a rock and has to work really hard not to say things that aren't appropriate to say in front of ladies. Though he's really starting to re-think the whole idea of Sam being a lady all of a sudden.

"Hm. No. I don't think so," Jackson says, as if he's now given the matter all the careful thought it deserves. "Why?"

_Because I am considering strangling you if you don't._

"Cam's wondering why he has to do all the hard things," Sam says helpfully, and Cam _refuses to contemplate_ the possibility that her voice wavered - just a bit - on the word 'hard.'

"Oh." Jackson sounds as if he's actually glad to have been asked that question and _really wants to answer it._ "Well. You see, Mitchell. Formerly _dead_ guy here. I am exempt from _everything._ "

Cam blinks for just a moment, wondering if he's heard Jackson correctly or if he's started hallucinating. "And just how the hell long are you planning to dine out on that?" he snaps before he thinks better of it.

This actually gets Jackson to turn around. Not stop. He's walking backward, and Cam hates him just a little in that moment. He smiles enchantingly (an expression Cam has already learned to distrust.) "Until you catch up," he says.

He turns back around and picks up the pace. Stargate's in sight. DHD. Home.

And it actually takes Cam a few seconds to work his way through the idea that the 'catching up' Jackson means isn't _to him right now_ (just as well Cam needs both hands to hold his vest where it will do some good or he might have been tempted to do another in a growing list of things he knows he shouldn't), but _to the number of times Jackson's died._ He doesn't even know how many that is (he knows the actual number is hotly-argued around the SGC, which is just one of so many freaky things about his new job), but he knows two things for sure.

He doesn't want to get into that competition with Jackson. And he's damned if he's going to let Jackson draw any further ahead, either. Not on his watch.

"Not planning to," he says, when he gets to the DHD. Jackson raises his eyebrows, but dials without comment and sends the code. Sam's on the radio, explaining to General Landry why they're coming back early.

"Colonel Mitchell lost his pants, sir. Again."

#

Travel between Stargates takes a measurable (really short) period of time. It's not long enough for Cam to decide whether he admires his team's cleverness at maneuvering themselves _behind_ him as they went through the Event Horizon, or to decide whether he should just plan to murder them instead. He's fairly sure Jackson isn't above shoving him down the ramp, that Teal'c doesn't give a good goddamn at the sight of ass, and that he's not going to give Sam the satisfaction of letting her know she's won this round.

General Landry's waiting for them in the Gate Room, of course. The man's eyebrows have always reminded Cam of caterpillars. When just about the first thing a man tells you is that he likes to yell at people and then starts talking about comic books, you just know you're going to sort of have to pick a body part to concentrate on in order to maintain your composure in all future conversations. Cam almost always picks eyebrows. That way they think you're looking them in the eye and paying attention. Fergie used to do ears. He said staring at their ears gave him a spiritual dimension. Cam flicks one glance at the expression on Landry's face, then concentrates firmly on Landry's eyebrows as he clutches his tac-vest firmly around himself and walks down the ramp. There is not one thing in this world or the next that Cameron Mitchell does not know about outfacing a superior officer. Whether he's been caught red-handed or bare-assed.

It would be really nice if Hernandez weren't up in the Control Room, though. He'd been thinking about asking her out.

"I'm sure you have an explanation for this, Colonel?" the General says, and oh, Lordy, he doesn't even look as if he wants to hear it. Well, Cam doesn't want to give it. That makes two of them.

"Yes, sir," Cam says, and he thanks his lucky stars that the Stargate is in a goddamned _bunker_ , and no matter what else goes wrong with this day, he is not going to have to salute, because there is nothing worse than having to salute while you're _naked_ (technically not appropriate, but in those situations your ass is grass either way.) "We were taken prisoner. The locals agreed to let us go on the condition that I-"

"I'm sure it will all be in your report, Colonel," General Landry says hastily, and the eyebrows look just a little desperate. He glares at them, and Cam does not need Alien Virus-induced Telepathy (SG-15 brought that back last week) to know exactly what he's thinking: _Will one of you geniuses cover up Colonel Mitchell's_ bare ass _before he has to parade it through the corridors from here to the Infirmary?_

Well, Cam's been wondering that for the last two miles, actually. But Sam has apparently decided she's seen enough of his butt to last her for the time being; she hands off her vest to Teal'c and shrugs out of her uniform shirt (ought to be Jackson, but Cam's decided that Jackson's secret mission in life is to get people naked, not to get them covered up again) and comes up behind him. And there's no way in hell he can get a hand free at this particular moment to help, so she slides her arms between his elbows and his ribs and ties the sleeves of her shirt around his waist, digging and tunneling to get underneath the tac-vest he's clinging to, because it sure as hell isn't going to fit _over_. Cam manages to not pay attention to what Sam's doing because he's watching General Landry and wondering if the man's going to _explode._ He doesn't, which is, okay, just a little disappointing. Cam sneaks a look over at Jackson, who's watching the General with the same rapt fascination. Jackson catches Cam watching him and smiles, and Cam isn't quite sure at what point he changed his mind about strangling all of them. Okay, except maybe Teal'c. It would take somebody who was both suicidal and really determined to strangle Teal'c, so he's never really planned to strangle Teal'c.

Sam steps back and he snugs the tac-vest back into place and he figures he looks really stupid right now, but he's covered and everything should stay that way until he gets down to the Infirmary. And General Landry (and his eyebrows) say that they're dismissed, and that he's looking forward to the debriefing.

Cam bets he isn't.

Of course they run into SG-3 coming down as they're going up, and Colonel Reynolds gives him the eye and says, "Nice pants, Mitchell."

And by that point Cam has _had just about enough_ , but Teal'c pipes up and announces that 'Colonel Mitchell's pants are most excellent, Colonel Reynolds: I have had the opportunity to examine them in great detail,' which at least allows Cam to make his escape, but where in the name of the Risen Elvis does Teal'c _come up with this stuff?_ Because there's gonna be a whole new chapter of Sex Secrets of the Jaffa High Command making the rounds of the SGC by the end of the shift, courtesy of Nathan Reynolds, or Cam will eat those currently-nonexistent 'most excellent' pants.

Still, after that they're in the elevator, then it's up to 21, then (Thank God) he's in the Infirmary and somebody's bringing him a set of scrubs and he was never so glad to put on a set of blue jammies in his _life._ Even if the Nursing Staff gossips like his Gran'ma's Sewing Circle. Oh yeah. _'Colonel Mitchell came back naked from a mission again.'_ Not exactly the legend he wanted to have. Time to start praying the Program doesn't go public until he's _dead_.

"Hey," Sam says, poking her head around the curtain, and Cam can't exactly make up his mind whether it's bravery or malice. "You got us back."

"I did that," he says. "After you set me up."

Sam doesn't even miss a beat. "Oh, no, Cam," she says, grinning at him. _"Daniel_ set you up. And you walked right into it like a perfect little gentleman. For which I'm ... reasonably grateful."

"So?" he says, because something in the way of an _apology_ would be nice. She could have handed over her shirt a lot sooner than she did.

"So," she says, and he's just _got_ to admire the woman's timing. "Welcome to Stargate Command."

And he doesn't have anything to throw at her, but she ducks anyway, because Sam Carter is nobody's fool.

And Cam Mitchell is learning.

Fast.

#


End file.
